Rachel: Then, everywhere, everywhere, throughout the South, there are hundreds of dark mothers who live in fear, terrible, suffocating fear, whose rest by night is broken, and whose joy by day in their babies on their hearts is three parts—pain. Oh, I know this is true—for this is the way I should feel, if I were little Jimmy’s mother. How horrible! Why—it would be more merciful—to strangle the little things at birth. And so this nation—this white Christian nation—has deliberately set its curse upon the most beautiful—the most holy thing in life—motherhood! Why—it—makes—you doubt—God!
Mrs. Loving: Oh, hush! little girl. Hush!
Rachel (Suddenly with a great cry): Why, Ma dear, you know. You were a mother, George’s mother. So, this is what it means. Oh, Ma dear! Ma dear! (Faints in her mother’s arms).
ACT II
ACT II.
Time: October sixteenth, four years later; seven o’clock in the morning.
Scene: The same room. There have been very evident improvements made. The room is not so bare; it is cosier. On the shelf, before each window, are potted red geraniums. At the windows are green denim drapery curtains covering fresh white dotted Swiss inner curtains. At each doorway are green denim portieres. On the wall between the kitchenette and the entrance to the outer rooms of the flat, a new picture is hanging, Millet’s “The Man With the Hoe.” Hanging against the side of the run that faces front is Watts’s “Hope.” There is another easy-chair at the left front. The table in the center is covered with a white table-cloth. A small asparagus fern is in the middle of this. When the curtain rises there is the clatter of dishes in the kitchenette. Presently Rachel enters with dishes and silver in her hands. She is clad in a bungalow apron. She is noticeably all of four years older. She frowns as she sets the table. There is a set expression about the mouth. A child’s voice is heard from the rooms within.
Jimmy (Still unseen): Ma Rachel!
Rachel (Pauses and smiles): What is it, Jimmy boy?